


Going Out For Coffee Shouldn't Be So Complicated

by fanastikal



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Vincent Cyr - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath, Best Friends, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26384785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanastikal/pseuds/fanastikal
Summary: Friends: Can't live with 'em, Can't live without 'em, literally.
Relationships: Vincent Cyr & Greg Jackson, Vincent Cyr/OMC





	Going Out For Coffee Shouldn't Be So Complicated

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about five years ago, about a possible scenario that was about five years older than that, when these two actually did live together for a time.  
> A few of their videos together kinda crossed a line, but I found most of them delightful, especially when they were just hanging out.  
> Greg's a good guy in this, 'cause I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt at the time.  
> I heard they had their umpteenth falling out, over the 2016 Presidential Election, of all things.  
> All in all, just too much drama for me. I have a husband for that!  
> Last I heard Cyr had switched his focus from YouTube to gaming, and had done some charitable work.  
> This is a work of fiction, I make no profit, and I wish them both all the best.  
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Greg was so clingy, and even though he understood it, he just didn't always want to deal with it. Some people needed to be in a relationship, and the older man seemed to be one of them. Cyr didn't like living alone, but he wasn't clingy, either, and sometimes he felt smothered. He'd wanted to go out for coffee at 11 at night, and Greg didn't want to go, but he didn't want the younger to go alone, either, even though he'd done it dozens of times before.

“You can make perfectly good coffee right here,” the man had insisted.

“I'd just rather go out for it--”

“You don't need an excuse to go for a ride on your pennyboard--”

“It's not an excuse, Greg: I wanna go out for coffee, and since you don't want to come with me, I want to ride my board to go get it.”

“We could make a skit on how ridiculous this is--” 

“Write the skit then, Greg, because I'm going.”

“And you're wearing fucking black, Cyr!” he persisted in exasperation.

“Well, thank fuck my skin's so white it glows in the dark!” he snarked back as the two glared at each other. “Couldn't just come with me, could ya, Greg?” he finished, slamming the door behind him.

The noise startled him because it was so loud, but the pain he felt a split second later in his right calf completely, literally threw him off balance, the board slamming into the curb as his phone went flying, even as he violently ended up hugging a tree before crumpling to the ground.

Oh god, everything was hurting, and everything was so dark and damp, and his leg was on fire, and his head was spinning, and he couldn't breathe through his nose, and . . . had he been wearing his glasses? Is that why that happened? Because he couldn't see clearly enough? Cyr could feel the cool night air on his arm, though, and he was hearing voices, but they were all warped to his ears; he couldn't understand what they were saying. What was wrong with him? He let out a panicked yelp when his arm felt a pinch, because he was still a logical person when it came down to it, and nothing was making sense.

No . . . this wasn't right at all. This felt unbelievably sinister. He managed to open his swollen eyes just a tad, and he was bundled in a strange bed, in a strange bedroom, and there was a man on a phone, staring coldly at him. Cyr found himself too frightened to even dare to speak, and was suddenly hyperventilating in panic, as if one of his darkest skits had come to life. He needed to run, to get away from here, but his leg wasn't cooperating: It was stiff and aching unbearably. The man was instantly off the phone, sitting down in a chair next to the bed, his large hands pressing Cyr back into the pillows gently:

“You need to relax.”

No. I need to get the fuck out of here. I think I need to be in a hospital. I think I've been shot in the calf, and I have a pretty good idea of who by. I need my nose straightened so that my eyes aren't swollen anymore. I don't need to be given sedatives, and held down while my shirt is ripped open, and my jeans are pulled down. I have parents. I have a future. I'm not really a skinny white boy who needs to be sold into some kind of sexual slavery. I'm actually rather successful. I'm also completely straight, despite what others may think, or what you may do to me. You're not gay. You're a perverted fuck who's running a business. I don't want to be kidnapped, anymore. It gets old fast. I'm not panicking, anymore. I'm in a heroin-induced stupor. I don't know how long it's been, but it feels like forever.

It isn't that long, Cyr, though I know why you feel that way. I worked in security, remember? I tried calling you after two hours, because I was trying to give you space. I traced your phone after that, then took the Prius out. Your pennyboard had rolled further down the street, but your broken phone was still under the hedges, and there were blood traces around, especially on that tree you face-planted. No sign that an ambulance had been there; they tend to be a little sloppy with clean-up, but so were your kidnappers, letting your leg drip like that. I called the cops. The whole thing took a lot longer than it should have, but at least there were no stupid mistakes. They were going to move you soon; they already had a buyer, despite your injuries. They thought you were the most beautiful boy they'd ever seen, and I hate telling you that, but it's true. And no, you weren't wearing your glasses, which was probably a good thing, because they didn't get smashed into your face.

“Cyr?” the elder man whispered shakily, leaning close to his ravaged friend. His torn clothes were barely still on him, but at least he was covered by a blanket. The ambulance had yet to arrive, so Greg was permitted to be with him until then. He gently got behind him and rolled him into the recovery position, nearly spooning him behind the cover. “I can fix your nose, Cyr. Do you want me to do that?” He couldn't break those bastards, but he could basically un-dislocate his friend's nose. “Try not to make too much noise, because the cops'll think I'm another rapist, and heroin can only deaden so much pain.” Cyr lifted a quaking right hand to his mouth and nodded slowly, but Greg was quick, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. “I'm so sorry, Cyr.”

Lethargic. Dehydrated. Underweight. Exhausted. Bullet wound to right calf. Facial injury. Sodomized. Oxygen. IV to right hand, dammit! He's left handed. Goes by Cyr, which is really his last name, but who cares? Is managing to be feverish and hypothermic at the same time. Shock. At least two heroin shots of unspecified dosage. Heart monitor. Recovery position in case of emesis. Easier on the backside anyway. Rape kit. Facial and right leg X-ray. Simple bullet extraction, six stitches; obviously more to impair than harm.

Someone left a camera by the bed, and he's immediately drawn to it, reaching out his achy, bruised left hand and picking it up carefully. He wouldn't even be able to stay awake if he hadn't chanced his fluttering eyes upon it. He's not remembering any more than snippets, and he thinks he's grateful, but not quite sure. The lights of the police cars as he was wheeled out of the house on a stretcher; the lights in the ambulance; the lights in the hospital corridor, the ER, in X-ray. All blurred, of course; rather ethereal. He tries talking to the camera, but his voice isn't right; all hoarse and raspy, and it horrifies and frustrates him. “Jesus.” But not as much as his visage in the screen, which he barely recognizes. Decides to just fiddle, but freezes as an odd pain shoots through his body like a lightning bolt, and nearly drops the thing. Manages to shakily lay it back on the nightstand, He's not dying, he's not dying, he's not dying. Just injured and drugged and sick. Just lay back down, Cyr, 'cause you're just making it worse.

A wild nurse suddenly appears, studying him, “Are you okay?” Apparently, his heart sped up with that lightning bolt, which surprised everyone, since he really has the monitor on to make sure all that illegal sedation doesn't stop his heart altogether. The pain isn't surprising to anyone but him, since trauma does things to people.

“No,” he croaks, finally. “I'm not okay.”

“Sleep if you can let yourself,” she answers. “Fighting the effects of the drugs is just going to exhaust you more.” He eyes her with some suspicion, but she's oddly reassuring. “You're perfectly safe here.”

Well, thank fuck. And Greg.


End file.
